Beware of Darkness
by JH Sounds
Summary: A long time ago, the Frenchman and his wife were so different. They were in love...
1. 04:22

**BEWARE OF DARKNESS**

_Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of any copyrighted material._

_Note: Inspired from "Meroveque" written by Matrix Refugee and the unrated film IRREVERSIBLE by Gaspar Noe._

**04:22.**

It was dark, yet the dawn of a new world was fastly approaching. Soon it would all change, just as it had before. It had to. But before peace could arrive, there had to be conflict.

There was no light in the sky. The sun had gone, like it always did, like it was meant to do. But in this instance, it had left behind a terrible emptiness that encapsulated all below. On the street level, crumbling slums shone with a odd beauty as most of the internal lighting glowed from within the structures. One window in particular blunk vibrantly against the starless night, leading down a hallway and eventually into a room filled with muttering chatter.

"You know what?" spoke a gruff voice suddenly.

"What?" asked another, taken out of a daze.

"None of this is real," he replied simply, slouching his moist back onto the wall.

In the dank, barren apartment, fluorescent bulbs twitched along noiselessly. The overwhelming gloom between the two men was merely punctuated by their disconnected, desperate conversation. But something wasn't right. There was death in the air.

"What isn't real?" the man asked, looking up from his crouched position on the rotted wooden floor.

"Everything... _Nothing_ is real." He scratched at his bare leg, the body fat rippling with the vigorous motion. "No, I am wrong. Our minds... they _do_ exist."

"Then what is all of this, around us?" he questioned with open curiosity.

The heavy-set male sat up on the stained mattress. "This... is just all a constraint. A prison. You see, our minds are linked unwillingly to a kind of system. This system is what makes me talk to you, and you me."

He scoffed. "How could you possibly know of this?"

"From the system," he answered. "I can see this world without the confines of time. It goes without saying that the very structure of chronology is flawed."

"I do not understand."

He raised his arm, and an odor abruptly filled the room. "We as beings have to suffer the consequences of our horrible actions, but only because of time's presence. Time is the cause of our destruction."

A faded voice called out from another room. "Hey," it said, "I'll have some of what you're smoking, please..." Laughter echoed outward from the same location, augmented by the sharp corners of the building, and gaining up to a crescendo as sirens swelled.

"The police...?" yelped the man on the floor, uncrossing his legs.

"An ambulance," the one on the bed corrected. "Another murder, perhaps."

"Ah," said the other. "They will never learn, those ravers. How can anyone not go into that club without guns?"

"Quite true," The man said, smiling and raising an empty cup. "To hell!"

"Yes, to hell!" agreed the other and fell backward onto the floor, passing out.

Outside, the sirens grew into a disturbing wail, mixing with the pumping rhythm of the nearby club and angry yells of party goers. Armed guards threatened the group to back off of the paramedics' vehicle, but it was a futile task considering how much they were outnumbered, not to mention how skilled the ravers were in the deadly arts.

A body bag was quickly tossed into the back doors, soon followed by a stretcher wobbling dangerously as the workers nervously carried the injured man into the ambulance. The metal doors closed, and the resonant banging and clanging of loyal minions could be heard from inside. Distancing themselves from the problem, the vehicle swerved violently to the left, propelling the paramedic onto the side. "Oof! Damn it!" he uttered.

"Do not swear in front of this man," spoke the driver. "Do you not know who this is?"

The paramedic gave him a look through the rearview mirror. "I am not an imbecile. Clearly this man is as important to us as a mother is to her newborn child."

"Then tell me whether or not he's still bleeding!" the driver exclaimed, wrangling the steering wheel in frustration.

The other lifted the torn flap on the fallen man's triple breasted suit. "It's dried up considerably." He wasn't exactly the best faux diagnoser.

"Good. Then we should get to chateau as quickly as possible." His foot cranked on the acceleration and the vehicle sped off into the darkness.

**- - -**


	2. 03:59

**03:59.**

Darkness was all he could see. His mind kept him straight, guiding him through the basement's many vaulted hallways and corridors. He was rather glad for the sightlessness, knowing what disturbing acts of debauchery took place here. But why did he come in the first place? Why grope through this maze of shadowed passages?

For her.

She was of course beautiful in her voluptuous female form, but more than that, the woman had a soul. Like many machine programs, she had an integral, useful flaw: she had the ability to siphon true emotions from others, but was unable to generate her own. This fascinated him. As a part of the machine world, he found this essence to be most attractive, but it wasn't until he had taken her away from that simple existence that they fell hopelessly in love.

On this night, he asked her to come alone, and this was his biggest mistake. But having protectors alongside her would have ruined his fleetingly traditional attempt at a marriage proposal. It was exactly two decades since they had freed themselves, and his pathetically human leanings told him it was time to bind their code.

He would kill anyone who had a part in destroying that event.

The hallway finally opened into a bar filled with hopeless batteries, and he felt at least some sympathy for them. He had shed most of his humanity to live indefinitely as a program, pushing headlong into world of code. There was so much that was lost in the transfer, yet so much he gained, and deep inside he wondered if he was still himself. Nevertheless, a strong distaste began to grow toward those who were of flesh, limited by the nature of which they existed... and if any of them had _hurt_ her...

"Attention," he spoke. "Is there anyone here with the alias of 'Leech'?"

"Shaddap!" cried a messy lump of a man leaning over the counter. He burped up a considerable amount of fluid afterward.

"The Leech," he repeated. "Where is he?"

"Who wants to know?" asked a calm, centered voice from an unknown direction.

"Merove," he replied, giving himself a disposable nickname.

"We don't need you high class pansies around here," spoke the man.

Quickly discovering the source of the sound, Merove scampered after him. "Sir, I take strong offense to your remark." He hadn't quite gotten to insulting in the English language just yet.

"What of it?" he replied. "Exactly what are you going to do?"

To this question, Merove thought of many things. Violent pod rejection. Total lobotic collapse. Or he could just strangle him.

"Wait," he continued. "I've seen you before..." He got up get a better look. "Yeah, You're Lambert Meroveque, the snob."

"Shit," spoke a tall, gangly drunk in the back. "That pig wouldn't be caught dead here -- not to mention alone, without bodyguards." He walked over to defend his shorter, crass friend.

"I want to find the Leech!" Merove shouted, distracted. "Is it you?" He jabbed a finger at the cursive one. In response to this, the man reached his unusually long fingers outward, grabbing Merove's arm. "You want to start something, huh?"

Merove prepared to attack him with his free hand, but the short one shoved him backwards onto the floor. The next few blows landed on the Frenchman's chin from a leather shoe, but it wasn't worse than anything he had felt in his existance. On the next swing, Merove grabbed the attacker by the leg and brought the man down with him. Soon he had climbed over the short man's chest, delivering hard fists onto his face. The drunk backed away slowly as he watched what was happening.

Merove wrapped his hands around his throat. The bar goers were stunned as the short man struggled for breath, working his fingers against his tight clench. Someone was going to die -- right there, tonight.

Then came a sickening tear and a yowl of pain rang out. Though he had not lost his grip on the victim's neck, a stream of blood now spilled from under the Frenchman's ribcage. The other pulled and shoved as much as he could, but Merove's attack would not relent until he was dead.

Very soon, he was.

Merove collapsed onto his victim, impaling the knife further into his own chest as his life began to fade.

"Holy hell..." said the drunk.

**- - -**


	3. 03:18

**03:18.**

The hell club had been created shortly after the first cycle, with the original intention of being a meeting place for those who rejected the dream world but were nevertheless hopelessly bound to it.

However, as the second cycle went on, it transformed into a loathsome breeding ground for the exiles, former agents of the system, and as humans made their way into the equation, there would be massive uprisings. A strict ban on weapons had little to no effect, as no one took it seriously, so death and deletion were on the rise. It took someone like the Merovingian to explain the rules of cause and effect, to display the logistics of natural order in a world full of oblivious minds.

Of course, there were still many who refused to listen. They were the undead programs, those who would fall only to an extensive burst of code transmitted to the central nervous and life support systems. There were also the oblivious human beings, whose ignorance of the system posed a threat to the programs. But the Frenchman would handle this in time, becoming more well known as he made lasting change.

There was only one consistant, unsolvable problem, and this was the dilemna of the savior. That "One" who would turn the war over in humanity's favor, which in turn would eliminate the escape world that many called home. He had survived the first version, a female, and whether a second messiah would arise -- or indeed had arisen -- was uncertain. One thing was sure: should the Matrix meet it's doom again, he would do anything in his power to protect both himself and the woman he held dear from annihilation.

Suddenly, the bustling sounds of the club jarred him from his thoughts, centering him as he made his rounds.

"Lambert!" spoke a program above the cacophony of noise. "Lambert, I thought I recognized that face. Having fun?"

He turned to see a woman in a snow-colored dress, clashing against everyone around her yet matching her perfectly curving hair. Something about her seemed unusually familiar. "Who are you?" he asked.

She laughed without inhibition, tilting her head back. "Ah, you don't remember me, do you?" She lifted the back of her hand to eye level, baring the digits 01 in bright, fiery red. "Does that look familiar to you at all?" she joked. The numbers instantly disappeared, and she lowered her arm.

01? The machine city? What madness was this? Had she transferred over to the Matrix to escape deletion, like he and his future wife had done?

The woman tried to explain. "I was one of the programs responsible for loosing you from your organic shell. After serving out my usefulness, I was able to get here though the Leech."

Through the _Leech_? He quickly recalled a program from the machine world with attributes similar to the earthly creature, but was this whom she was referring to? His forehead wrinkled, processing the information. "You have done something horribly wrong, following me into this place."

"Whatever do you mean?" she asked, daintily swinging to the music.

He grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to be serious. "Foolish woman! That exit was taken only as a means to avoid deletion, and was then sealed. By coming here, with however many others who may have altered, unknown forces may use than passageway to their cruel ends."

"But what do you care?" asked the woman, avoiding his narrowing gaze.

His eyes grew wide. "Because, you tramp, my wife-to-be is planning to wait at that connection point within the hour!" He shoved the woman to the side and darted out of the club, hoping he would make it.

Outside, he quickly jumped into the car. "Drive, you worthless creations!" he shouted. The stretch-limousine pulled out into heavy traffic, hurrying to get to the station. Of all the things he wished to discover while exiled in this world, the most prevalent were the keys to programmer access chambers. There was no doubt in his mind that he would succeed in finding them, but the few backdoors he had uncovered were enough to evade most of the system's enforcers. As for the rest...

"Here, here!" he cried, and the limo jerked to a halt. Before waiting for his men to open the door, he lurched out and made for the stairway. Reaching the bottom step, he could see an empty chain of cars set to take him off to the access byway to meet his love.

But then he saw her.

No.

The servants held him back, and he was unable to overcome his emotion at what he could see. The woman's body slumped over in the stretcher, carried by two oblivious humans. Her face was bloodied and bruised, but she was still recognizable. It really _was_ his love. What kind of person would commit such a horrible act?

"Persephone!" he screamed, and fell to his knees. He found his voice tightening, the horror forced out through his lungs. Why?

His agony echoed into the night.

**- - -**


	4. 03:00

**03:00. **

On this night, this twenty-year anniversary, the two lovers had decided to meet at the Train Station where they were liberated, where they each took male and female forms. From the moment they met, there was something unmistakeable about him. As she stood there, thinking back to that time, Persephone could remember sitting on that cold metal bench, staring into his eyes. Those piercing, blue eyes... They were the perfect representation of a deeply innate curiosity for information. But was that all she admired?

She sat, immersed in thought. What was it about the Frenchman that she found so attractive? Was it his suave personality? His commanding mentality? No, she realized, it was simply his code. His digital makeup thrived with human characteristics, and this fascinated her. She had longed to sample him... But within the confines of the machine world, there was obviously no room for copulation. The only solution was to escape into the realm created for helplessly imprisoned minds, sealing themselves within and secluding themselves far from any city.

Fast, purposeful footsteps broke her concentration, accompanied by a voice. "Hey," spoke a rather tall, gangly individual, wearing a long overcoat. "What have we got here?" He walked up to her, staring longingly at her dazzling white dress. "Waiting for someone, are we?"

"That is not of your concern," she replied, looking away.

"Oh?" he said. "Well, can you explain what a machine program such as yourself is doing halfway into the Matrix?"

The woman stood up, sauntering over to the edge of the platform. She was deeply bothered by this man, but did her best to hide this fact.

"Where are you going?" he asked, following behind her. "You just got here. Why leave so soon?" The man bent forward slightly, brushing his nose against her bare shoulder.

She quickly spun around and slapped him.

"Ow..." His reaction was uttered more as a reflex than anything else. "Why did you go and do that for?" He quickly grabbed her arms, lifting her up to his level. Taking a step forward, he had her dangling over the tracks, ready and willing to drop her if the Train came. "See how easy it is? How close you are to deletion?"

Her breaths were short. "W-why..."

He chortled. "Did you really think it was that easy to free yourself using this station - this hole? The system programmers were well aware of this place before you were even created, and they have been monitoring it closely."

"Help!" she shrieked, her body burning with pain.

"No one can hear you," he informed, swiftly turning himself around and throwing her back to the platform. She finally caught her breath, her neck and arms throbbing, and kicked herself away from him. More than ever, she wanted to be back to her old home, where the human flaws of misery and suffering did not apply.

The man grabbed her ankle, locking her in place. "We can do this in one of two ways. You decide." His eyes were wild with a sick blend of anger and desire. But in no time at all, he had received her decision via a swift kick to the knee.

"Heh," he responded, barely flinching, not letting her go. "You chose poorly." The man took hold of her other leg and shoved her into the corner. In the next few moments, she felt a powerful weight crush against her body, paralyzing her. Her chest strained to heave, her shoulder blades jabbed into her spine, and she immediately closed her eyes at what she knew was coming.

He began, slowly inching his course fingers up to her thighs, and her exposed, immobilized shell recoiled. She wanted to scream, to fight back, to do anything to keep him from having his way with her, but she was weak, helpless to the program's hatred and overpowering effect.

She couldn't bear to think of the vile, sadistic program thrusting maniacally into her pathetic female body. She did not want to take the concussions to her face as he pummeled her during the despicable act. But she had to, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

It was primal, unrelenting, but she soon realized it was more than just a sexual act; she was also changing. Her essence flowed outward into his makeup, and her vital components began to drain away. This wasn't just barbaric gratification - she was being sampled, and in the most brutal, uncaring way a humanistic program could. But he didn't have to hit her, or make her suffer. He simply enjoyed it.

For a brief instant, her mind fell away. It was nothing the attacker could notice, but it was enough for her to see things for what they truly were. She suddenly remembered that her husband-to-be had promised to meet her here at the top of the hour. With painful regret, she knew things would be different, so different, if he were here to protect her - and that she would not be violated like she was now.

"I have what I need," he said after what seemed like an eternity, and retracted from her limp, frail frame.

Right then, she wished she could die.

**-**


	5. 01:01

**01:01. **

A living death. In the shadows of black emptyness, they could see the clouded, fast moving forms in the night. The shapes shot past the car window too quickly to be discernable, but it was obvious what they were: the walking dead.

Even the most simplistic of programs could tell a hive mind apart from an exile, since there was always one outstanding characteristic: they simply lived their lives, never wondering. The ones who searched the truth did not fall ignorantly into the crowd, but walked against it, taking a path less traveled.

Something about those humans reminded Merove of himself. Before the transfer, he could remember a time before the machines reigned, a place where he and countless others would interact in digital form. This place was not dissimilar to the dream world, except that it was not an oppressive realm, but one of liberation. It was truly ironic that such a system predated the Matrix.

His eyes focused back on his reflection in the window. "We can't go back," he realized, slowly turning his head toward her.

She could see that his organic innocence was in full form. "Back where?" she asked, trying to speak as delicately as possible.

"Back to our lives," he explained. "To what we had been when we were first created." His face suddenly fell at the mere thought of it.

"That is impossible," she said, reassuring him."You know that."

"But why?" His voice rose. "What is the reason we go on?"

She had found this to be her love's biggest strength and his mortal flaw: his ability to 'reason' hinself into oblivion. She could only listen, wondering if she would ever get tired of there analyses. With extreme caution, she shifted closer to him.

"Another sample?" he asked, his wan expression unchanged. "Please, _mon cherie_, I must present myself for the meeting." He could see the look in her eyes. "But I promise that before the end of the third hour, your longings will be fufilled."

The rain continued to pound against the vehicle, blocked off only when the limousine stopped under the protection of the Archway. His servants opened the side door he was leaning against. "Sir," spoke one of the men. "He is waiting."

The Frenchman let out a sigh. "Well my dear, business is calling." He gave her one last, fleeting kiss. "Driver, take this woman to the nearest station."

Her arm lingered as they separated, as if betraying the rest of her body, and she watched him go. From her perspective, it appeared that her love was stepping through a solid sheet of glass forming under the walkway.

"You're late," spoke a slippery, haunting voice from the inky darkness under the Arch. "Is that the human in you taking over?"

Merove's molars grinded together in a controlled rage. "I am on time, not that it matters."

The male stepped forward, revealing a stylistically tattered black suit. "Yes. But you are usually here much earlier." His skin's sallow complexion stood out dramatically from his attire, riddled with scarred tissue. He grinned darkly. "Did your girlfriend keep you?"

This got to him. "My personal life is irrelevent in this matter."

The program's gesticulating hands were extended with large fingernails, and one of these pressed against Merove's suit. "I know what you're planning, and I can tell you that you will fail."

His chin rose indignantly. "I don't know what you are talking about."

"Liars never do," he stated. Programs were, of course, incapable of lying, but the Frenchman was more than that. "I am speaking of the proposed takeover of my many loyal minions," he continued." You know as well as I do that the undead will only follow orders from their kind, and no one else."

"Of course," said Merove, "and that is why I always turn to you."

"That is bullshit!" he shouted. "It is very obvious that you plan on making my loyal legions defect from me, towards someone such as yourself."

"What nonsense," he insisted, exasperated. "If anything, I should wonder if you have a betrayal in mind."

The program gingerly moved his nail upward, scratching against the outside of the Frenchman's clothing, moving towards his neck. Though he seemed menacing, the exile did not wish for his grey, deadened skin to make contact. "I can tell when you're lying," he spoke, his voice shaky. "This is my last warning: Any more suspicious behavior and we become sworn enemies."

"Just when we were becoming the best of friends," he retorted. "But enough of these pleasantries - what is it that requires my presence?"

The impaler finally removed his cuticle from the Frenchman's dapper clothing ensemble. "Insurance." He gestured to his left, toward an encrusted iron doorway. "If you would follow me..."

Merove wasn't surprised to see that Vlad, with his accumulated resources, was in possession of a ring of programmer access keys. So he had only one question: where did he think he was taking him?

They quickly moved onward, walking into the bright maintenance hallway and taking a singularly red door. It opened without a touch, leading into a confined space filled with those of Vlad's kind, and they were readying their collection of grotesque equipment. As he peered closely, Merove could see various tools of surgical perversion.

"Sit down," Vlad insisted, pulling a chair closer to him.

Hedid so, trying his hardest not to seem fearful. "What is all of this?"

The program tightened the straps on the armrests. "I've already told you, it's insurance."

Swallowing slightly, the Frenchman was able to turn his head freely, but chose not to. Seconds later, he sensed a thin, shallow blade entering the back of his neck. A white-hot heat rushed over his body, seeping into his skin. This was hardly a sensation he had been unfamiliar with, but it jolted his awareness in a way it a hadn't before. "W-what is happening to me?" he shouted.

"You're becoming one of us," Vlad replied, smiling darkly.

Merove convulsed wildly as the corrupted code coursed through his shell, overwriting him. Odd visions filled his mind, disorienting him. But as quickly as it began, it ended.

"Welcome, Brother."

**-**


End file.
